


Black Your Boots

by BewareTheIdes15



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-01
Updated: 2014-06-01
Packaged: 2018-01-27 20:55:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1722236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BewareTheIdes15/pseuds/BewareTheIdes15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being best friends with Steve’s given him the long years of practice at talking bigger than he is that keeps Bucky’s voice from wavering on, “Steve, what’re you doing?”<br/>That affords him a look, exactly one, which is what clues him in that Steve hasn’t met his eyes up til now.<br/>“Earning my keep.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Your Boots

**Author's Note:**

> Hahahaha, this took 86 years to finish for no good reason at all. But it's finished now and I can't look at it anymore, so here, world! *flings porn at you*
> 
> This is purely, 100% PWP, inspired by [this](http://bewaretheides315.tumblr.com/post/85630989733/what-alchemy-buckysexual-so-reading-this) important bit of information. (Yes, the original post is talking about slang from 1800s France, but we're just going at assume it meant the same thing in 1930s Brooklyn, okay? Okay.)
> 
> I included a warning above for mildly dubious consent because of the constraints of POV and the fact that nobody in the room is a mindreader, so explicit consent is never given, but it was always my intention that they both totally want this and I feel like that comes across, so make of that what you will.

All Bucky really wants out of life is a shower, a beer, and to not have to move for the next year or so. He’s willing to settle for a shower. In a minute.

The rusty joints of the bedframe squeak when he flops down on the end of the mattress, soles of his feet scraping the floorboards as he lets his legs hang loose.

On second thought, maybe just not having to move.

He plucks at the hem of his undershirt, letting a puff of cool in to skitter up the clammy skin of his belly. Wonders, not for the first time, whether it's even worth the laundry soap when his next clean set of clothes is going to end up in the same state.

Winter'd hung around longer than anybody had expected, but the weather's finally taking a turn for the balmy. Good news for Steve and his spun-sugar lungs. Good news for any time Bucky's not on the docks hauling around crates that out weight-class Steve, getting the brackish, fishy odor of the East River pasted to him like wallpaper with his own sweat for glue.

As little weight as Steve’s got packed onto his bird bones, the floor still creaks under his feet. Bucky peels one eye open, tilts his head enough to make out the shape of him in the doorway without having to exert himself.

It not as dark out as it would have been this time two weeks ago, but the little window over Steve’s bed looks out over the alley so the only light making it in is a dusty lavender that smudges the world’s edges and turns everything sort of soft.

Steve doesn’t look soft. Not any softer than usual, leastways.

He’s got on one of the shirts that they trade back and forth, supposedly to save money even though all it does is wear the cloth out faster. Hard to tell which one from here, but the shape gives it away; how it droops off Steve’s shoulders like a wire coathanger, bunches around the waist. Makes him look smaller than he is, but hell, there’s not much around that makes Steve look bigger.

His arms are crossed over his chest, jaw a sharp slice of shadow, that determined look on his face that’s as good as storm clouds on the horizon.

“What, a man can’t lay in his own bed without getting the hairy eyeball?”

They hardly ever really fight, so picking one is pointless, but they’ve argued like an old married couple since they were kids and sometimes that’s enough to get Steve to work off a head of steam.

“Not if he’s gonna stink up my bedroom.”

He kicks at Bucky’s boots where they’ve toppled over one another in the middle of the floor. That is one of the things they fight about - Steve’s awfully persnickety about things in the floor - so the fact that he doesn’t say a word about them, just keeps coming until he’s standing between Bucky’s knees, is fair cause for concern. “You smell like a water buffalo.”

“Know a lot of water buffalo, do ya?”

“Just the one I live with,” Steve says, and shoves the hem of Bucky’s undershirt up to his armpits.

Jerky, Bucky bolts upright, more skittish than he should be considering the number of times Steve's seen him stripped to the skin. “Alright, I get it, I’ll shower. Don’t think the neighbors’ll appreciate it if I get naked before I get there.”

Like he didn’t hear a word of it, Steve moves right on to Bucky’s pants. “Think you’re giving the neighbors too much credit.”

His suspenders are already hanging slack from his hips, shucked the same time as his shirt, so it’s the work of all of four seconds for Steve to get the buttons of Bucky’s fly tugged open, even with Bucky getting his fingers all tangled up in the works trying to call him off.

Being best friends with Steve’s given him the long years of practice at talking bigger than he is that keeps Bucky’s voice from wavering on, “Steve, what’re you doing?”

That affords him a look, exactly one, which is what clues him in that Steve hasn’t met his eyes up til now. In all fairness, he’d have probably noticed before now if he hadn’t been doing exactly the same thing.

“Earning my keep.”

The watery slink of self-loathing should put some force behind Bucky’s hands trying to back Steve off, but it’s like it saps his strength instead; all of his energy gone to the rabbitting of his heartbeat, like he’s the one with palpitations.

“Hey, c’mon, cut it out,” isn’t as steady as before. There’s a dull buzzing nestled somewhere behind Bucky’s molars, spreading down into his chest every time he swallows too little saliva, trying to get his mouth to work right, get it to spit something out that’ll make this less like a dirty thought not meant to see the light of day. “Already said I stink.”

Tension’s drawn a line between Steve’s eyebrows, the fading light blue as bruises under his eyes. His tongue slips out for a hasty lick along the seam of his lips, same time as his fingers slip under the waist of Bucky’s underpants, and Bucky wishes to heaven he knew which part sends electricity zipping up his spine.

“Yeah, well, what else is new?”

There’s a part of Bucky that’s still thinking it’s a joke, even though the way Steve’s is glaring is deadly seriously. Even though… even though this isn’t the first time Steve’s offered since he moved in.

Bucky’d never meant a damn thing by it, that crack about making Steve do housework or shine his shoes. Or, well, he’d meant to save Steve’s pride, because God knows Steve’s got enough of it to choke an elephant, but not as a suggestion. Certainly not a ‘black my boots’ kind of one.

Steve’s never been one to take a handout, though, least of all one he actually needs. To him it looks like pity, and Bucky can understand why that ruffles him up, even if he ought to damn well know better after all these years than to think Bucky would pull something like that. Would begrudge him for getting a goddamn education and making something of himself instead of wasting away as a dockhand like a big lump of meat. Bucky keeps telling him that he’s just biding his time until Steve makes it big as an artist so he can lay around the house eating bon bons while Steve does all the work. Steve’s not buying it.

Still, even if Bucky had considered that Steve might take the whole thing wrong, he wouldn’t have conjured up anything like what he’s been living with for two solid weeks. Speculative looks and bald-faced offers blurted right out through the flush on his cheeks; Steve stripping out of his clothes at night slow enough Bucky’d think it was a tease if he didn’t know so well that Steve doesn’t consider himself as much to look at.

Bucky’s rebuffed them all, played it off for laughs with a pat on Steve’s shoulder and Steve’s kept right on coming, because the little punk’s never once known when to stay down.

Just thinking about it makes Bucky feel dirtier than the sweat-salt gone crispy on his skin. Makes him worse than some of the guys from on the job who he knows’ll buy a girl’s time for a couple of hours, because at least she’s getting money out of it; Steve’s trying to pay out for what Bucky wants to give him for free. Makes him sick, because you could put up a three ring circus under the tent he’s pitched just from Steve getting pushy about it.

“Steve, I mean it.” Catching those skinny wrists shouldn’t be such a chore, not when Bucky’s got the lion’s share of the strength and coordination. But Steve shakes him off like a pesky fly, and maybe that’s Bucky’s fault. Maybe the reason they’re here at all  is that Bucky hasn’t tried quite as hard as he could’ve to tell him no.

“Geez, I never heard a guy complain so much about somebody trying to give him a suck job,” Steve grumbles, the corner of his mouth pulling the same aerial loop-de-loop as Bucky’s stomach when his cock visibly twitches at the words.

There are people out there, Bucky’s met them, who think it’s Bucky who’s the bad influence on Steve. Obviously none of them have ever had Steve’s hand on their dick.

It’s a good hand, too. Not as strong as Bucky’s, but slender and clever, calloused in exciting new ways. Steve can make beautiful things with that hand. With it wrapped around him like that, Bucky feels sort of beautiful.

“Steve,” he grunts. It ought to be an argument, but that part doesn’t quite make it out right. Probably because Steve just hooked the head of Bucky’s cock into the V of his first two fingers and sort of twisted and all of Bucky’s brainpower ended up going to rolling his hips instead.

Steve’s better at this than he’s got any right to be, stroking firm enough to feel good but still loose, so the dry drag of his skin doesn’t chafe. There’s dozens of places he could have picked it up; people don’t talk about it right up front but Bucky grew up in the neighborhood, no way to avoid knowing about fellas who dress up like dames and dames who treat men like trained poodles and the kinds of things two or three or four guys could get up to without any clothes in the way. Knowing about it and knowing how to do it are two different things, but then Steve’s always been clever. Creative. A goddamn sneaky little shit.

He probably knows exactly how long it’s been since Bucky felt anybody else’s hands on him. Hell, Bucky wouldn’t put it past him for a second to have planned it out with that in mind. If Steve had as much muscle as he does bullheadedness he wouldn’t be able to fit through the doorway.

Could be that’s why Bucky hasn’t fought it as hard as he really ought to’ve. God knows he’s lost enough times, trying to go head to head with Steve’s determination to know better by now.

Then again, there could be other reasons.

Bucky’s legs are spread wide enough the Brooklyn Bridge could fit between them, so Steve slots in with no trouble at all, even when he kneels down so it’s his shoulders instead of his legs brushing the insides of Bucky’s thighs.

The sight of Steve down there sends Bucky’s insides crawling, tying themselves up into shoelace knots at the way Steve’s studying him like a drawing with some tricky bit of perspective. The collar of his - their - shirt is creeping over toward his shoulder, and his tongue is shiny where it’s peeking out of the corner of his mouth. Skinny and threadbare and such a slice of everyday Steve that it almost feels like Bucky’s dick being all mixed up in it is normal too somehow.

It’s not.

Getting less so every second as Steve leans in a little more to get his face up close to where he’s slowly jacking Bucky off. His hand travels down the length of it and back up again, gripping tighter this time so that a little bit of clear liquid wells up.

“Just play like I’m a girl,” Steve shrugs, voice the quiet kind of gritty reserved for swearing in church. The warm puff of breath on wet skin is enough to smack a moan right out of Bucky’s mouth.

Steve’s eyes flash up to him again at that, blue as a color picture against the black and white of their dingy matchbox apartment. All the hesitation in them bleeding out of them just that fast, leaving a smear of determined curiosity bobbing in its wake. Blooming like goddamn springtime in the curve of his lips, smug enough to make a nun blush.

How the whole damn world can look at him and think he’s sweet as apple pie will never fail to mystify Bucky.

When it actually comes to getting down to business, Steve takes his time, examining the deft stroke of his own fingers along the length of Bucky, pressing here and there until Bucky’s toes start to curl and his lungs go shivery. Long enough that Bucky’s got plenty of opportunity to stop him; hourglass sand spilling through his hands when all the does is lay back down, one arm crooked under his head so he can watch right back.

Under the circumstances, the pace could very well be nerves, but Bucky figures it’s more to do with how Steve’s eyes keep jumping from his face, to his hands fisted in the sheets, to the rapid rise and fall of his chest like Steve’s memorizing it all to sketch out later.

Then it finally happens, and as braced as Bucky might have thought he was, it still hits like a suckerpunch. Soft pressure and blistering heat, the flat of Steve’s tongue like boiling molasses as it traces along the ridge. That familiar mouth warped out of shape by a tentative suckle that ends in a noise that could probably get them both arrested for lewdness.

“Steve,” croaks out of him again, can’t swallow it back, and a grin spreads across Steve’s face like spilled ink. Doesn’t get in the way of him kissing at Bucky’s cock, even if it means Bucky gets the feel of hard, slick teeth as much as warm lips.

There’s a raw nervousness in how he moves that Bucky knows down in his bones, the will to do something right without being quite sure that he can; the fear of having it taken away if he can’t. It makes him ache in a way that’s got nothing to do with the rush of blood between his legs, and then his hand’s on the side of Steve’s face without him meaning to put it there and Steve’s arching into it like an alley cat expecting for food.

One time Bucky took out a girl who wanted to get their fortunes read for a nickel out on Coney Island. The old gypsy lady had bent over their hands and spouted all kinds of bull and for whatever reason the bit about his love line is playing over in his head again now as Steve huffs an eager little noise against the center of his palm. Kisses against it, true love tender, then dirty as sin as he turns so Bucky’s fingers are sunk into the feather of his hair and his lips pop shut around the head of Bucky’s dick.

Oh, his mouth is a wonder.

Soft, not even sucking, just holding it there in that slick heat, toying around with the thin sheath of skin that covers the tip with his tongue. Spit’s starting to run down the shaft, down Steve’s chin as he tries bobbing his head. Pulls back just as quick with a gagging retch that’s got no business turning Bucky’s insides molten.

Steve’s always so pale, like all the color he had got used up painting his soul in feisty technicolor, but he’s pink in the lips now, cheeks like he’s all done up in rouge. Pretty, which he sure as hell wouldn’t appreciate being called, but true nonetheless. You get down on the floor with a fella’s cock in your mouth and you’re liable to get called a lot worse.

Every inch of Bucky’s body feels like Times Square, lit up so bright he could save their electric bill for a month. Tingling under his skin, burning as muscles he already put through the wringer today tighten up, legs squeezing like a bear trap, as if Steve’s trying to get away instead of shoving up even closer.

Brand-hot hands smooth up the inside of Bucky’s thighs, thumbs brushing circles into his balls so gentle and steady that they make Bucky’s eyes want to drift closed, or else roll back so far in his head he might spend the rest of his life blind.

It’s heaven. Better than the couple of girls Bucky’s gone steady with who’d been willing to try it. Bucky’s honest enough, at least here, in the privacy of his own head - at least now, with Steve’s mouth on him making him loopier than a stiff drink - to admit there’s a good part of that that’s because Steve’s the one doing it.

The very tip of Steve’s tongue fits so perfectly into the slit of Bucky’s dick that Bucky’s spine bows.

A strangled hiccup of a noise squeezes out of him. Usually he’s good at being quiet - too much of his life spent in close quarters with thin walls to be anything else. But Steve knows him better than anybody, even though he’s got no cause to know him like this, so it’s not as much of a shock as it should be that he can get Bucky to break down into tiny bitten groans.

Steve could get him to sprout wings and fly if he really put his mind to it.

He’s got his hand in on the action again, stroking while he kisses and licks and slurps, and it’s the filthiest thing Bucky’s ever thought of, let alone had done to him. Little Stevie Rogers facedown in his sweaty skin, hair falling in his eyes and caught in Bucky’s fist; the look on his face pure earnesty, like getting Bucky off is going to cure all the worlds ills.

On a whim Bucky clenches his fingers, baby fine strands digging into the work-raw pads of them as he holds Steve’s mouth down on him for one second longer than Steve had been planning. Sticky black guilt floods in immediately after, the thick roil of it in Bucky’s gut at odds with the sugar-sweet burn when Steve’s teeth scrape a little against the ridge as he sucks his way back up.

All Steve does is groan. Dips back down and chases the push of it against the back of his throat again. Stays there like Bucky’s making him, when the only reason Bucky’s hand’s still on his head is that he forgot how his arms work.

The fist around the base of Bucky’s cock squeezes, forces him to look down and watch a cobweb thread of spit string from Steve’s lips to the tip of his dick as he pulls back up again, air burning and freezing against wet skin in turns as Steve gulps in another breath or two. Looks up at him with steel in his eyes and tears on his lashes and Bucky’s been getting into trouble with him long enough to know what a dare looks like.

What it feels like is going to have to be a mystery, because that look is like a tug on Bucky’s marionette strings, and the solid wall of heat that’s been backed up in his core is spilling blistering hot along his veins.

Steve jerks back, spluttering and hacking, still pumping with his hand so Bucky finishes off in wet blurts over his own belly.

By the time Bucky’s got his head back on straight enough to be worried about the ragged edge to Steve’s breathing, Steve’s already wiping his tongue clean on the cuff of his shirt, face all scrunched up in distaste and his other arm moving…

Sitting up takes energy Bucky hasn’t got, but adrenaline’s better medicine than most of what they hawk in drugstores, and once the thought’s nestled in his head he can’t not find out if it’s true.

Sure enough, once he gets upright there’s no denying that Steve’s working himself over. Down there on the floor between the sprawl of Bucky’s legs, pants undone, skinny hips jerking up into his own fist. The one with Bucky’s come all over it.

Jesus, it’s not possible to get off again this soon after the first one, but damn if Bucky doesn’t feel right on the edge of doing it anyway.

The light has well and truly faded outside, making it tough to tell much of anything about Steve’s cock, but Bucky’s seen enough of it over the years to fill in the gaps; slim and pink and a little long for the rest of his body. Hard now, shiny and sticky with Bucky’s come and fuck, fucking hard. From sucking Bucky off. Steve got it up for the taste of Bucky’s dick.

Ah, shit, Bucky’s got to kiss him now no matter how much it might muck things up later.

Steve’s mouth is as fever-hot and puffy as Bucky’s seen it after dozens of brawls. Slack, because of course Steve wasn’t expecting this, but hell, Bucky hasn’t expected anything that’s happened to him in the last few weeks so Steve’ll just have to live with it until Bucky gets done sucking the heavy, musky flavor of himself off Steve’s bottom lip.

It’s awkward, hunched over like this, cold come drooling down his stomach, probably staining his trousers. But then Steve’s pushing up into the tilt of his head, easing the strain on Bucky’s neck and licking at him the same messy, uncoordinated way he treated Bucky’s dick. Like he hasn’t had any practice at it, which Bucky knows he hasn’t. Knows he’s the very first person to ever kiss Steve on the mouth and it makes him mad at himself that he didn’t think to do it before Steve sucked him off.

“You’re so good,” he mumbles, near unintelligible when Steve doesn’t give up on kissing him stupid. Then does, all of a sudden, peeling his mouth off of Bucky’s to hiss a genuine curse and then it’s just panting and the sound of his come spattering the floorboards. Bucky nibbles kisses along his cheekbone and pets at his hair and doesn’t even try to convince himself that he’s not going to be hearing that in his head every time he beats off for weeks yet.

It’s, it’s maybe too much. Steve’s not some dame he’s making time with, and he’s never taken to being coddled. He doesn’t shake Bucky off, though, just stays there on his knees until that rattle that’s been kicking around his ribcage since February settles and the smears on Bucky’s stomach have started to itch.

“You still stink.” Steve’s voice is shredded like after one of his coughing fits, only instead of worried, this time it startles a laugh out of Bucky, plants a seed of heat he really didn’t need taking up space in his belly.

This just might turn into a problem.

Bucky sits back so Steve can get up without them knocking heads. Lets him use Bucky’s leg as a handhold when his knees creak like an old man’s and his balance wavers. The middle finger that zips up the length of Bucky’s thigh probably isn’t any more purposeful than how he licks his lips, but that doesn’t keep either of them from making Bucky’s skin prickle.

Alright, more than ‘might’.

“Really oughtta take that shower,” Bucky says. Can’t do a damn thing about it seeing as his legs have gone to jelly, but says it anyway. The sort of thing he’d have said if Steve had just walked in to chat at him for a bit after work.

Through swollen, shiny lips that’re doing nothing at all to keep Bucky’s mind on the right track, Steve grins. “What’ve I been saying this whole time?”

He’s got his pants done up again, one handed, the sole of his shoe scuffing at the wet spot he left in front of Bucky’s bed. It’ll dry out white; peel and flake off the floor and Bucky wonders whether Steve’ll complain at him about cleaning it up or if this is the kind of thing they’re just going to play like never happened.

Now that it’s all said and done, that scrap of sense he’s been storing up for a rainy day has finally started gnawing at him. They’ve done an awful lot of fool-headed things together, him and Steve, plenty of them worth being embarrassed over. It feels altogether different, though, thinking about Steve being embarrassed of something he did to Bucky. For him. Sets something tar-black ablaze in his chest at the very idea of it.

Bucky’s breath stumbles to a halt in his throat as Steve leans back in again. Unless he’s got a fever, he doesn’t usually put off much heat, but Bucky can feel it radiating from him now, mouth close enough to Bucky’s to catch the sharp scent of sex on his breath.

The number of girls Bucky’s fooled around with one way or another is by no means modest. None of them have ever sent anticipation like a battalion of fire ants crawling up the back of his neck before, not the way Steve does with the shuff of his mouth, the spit drying on his lips catching sticky at Bucky’s.

Mary, mother of God, Bucky’s heart’s going to hammer right out of the front of his body.

Fabric whispers against his skin as Steve’s fingers ball in the hem of Bucky’s undershirt, dirty as a secret in the cool blue twilight.

Dirty as the wet drag of it smacking back against his belly once Steve’s finished wiping his hand clean on it.

“Punk!” Bucky gives him a shove backward, just a light one, voice incredulous and edgy with laughter while Steve stumbles back against the wall. Goddamn sneaky little shit.

“Had to be washed anyway!” The shrug he tries to give shakes out to nothing around a snicker.

They laugh and Bucky kicks out half-heartedly at him, too far away to have even a hope of reaching. The sound of it loosens Bucky’s spine.

In the easy silence that follows, Bucky starts carefully trying to peel his way out of his undershirt. Throwing on something fresh just to walk down the hall seems ridiculous, but he doubts Mr. DePalma next door would appreciate his current state any more than if Bucky really did walk to the washroom naked. There’ve been enough poisonous glances aimed at him and Steve over the years without adding any credence to it.

Steve says something about dinner being ready soon and Bucky mumbles an affirmative, caught up in wriggling free without getting anything obscene smeared on his face. But the sound of Steve’s footsteps stops at the door again, waiting until Bucky’s in the clear to appreciate the full show of Steve twisting a look over his shoulder, bashful and coy and a lot more sultry than Bucky would’ve ever thought Steve could manage.

“I’ve got the hang of it now,” he says, smoothing a hand over his hair the way he always does when Bucky tries to introduce him to girls. “‘ll be less messy next time.”

**Author's Note:**

> PS - I always forget to include this: I'm on [tumblr](http://bewaretheides315.tumblr.com/). Hit me up if you feel like there aren't quite enough people in your life weeping about Sebastian Stan's face.


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